


arms to fall right into

by stupidwithu



Series: Passed Torch [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bi Peter Parker, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fanfiction, Gay Harley Keener, Harley Keener as Iron Lad, M/M, Passed Torch AU, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, i'll explain in the notes, parkner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:42:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stupidwithu/pseuds/stupidwithu
Summary: You’re all alone, your friends are in trouble... What are you going to do?Looking out over Queens, Peter had two choices. The first one was to just jump, but even he could see it was a little dramatic (besides, the suit had parachutes). So, he resorted to his preferred method of damage control: What would Mr. Stark do? In hindsight, coming to Harley was a stupid idea. Sure, it’s something Tony might’ve done – Hell, he did do it - but those were different circumstances.
Relationships: Happy Hogan & Peter Parker, Harley Keener/Peter Parker
Series: Passed Torch [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696651
Comments: 4
Kudos: 75





	arms to fall right into

**Author's Note:**

> alright let me explain
> 
> BASICALLY this is a post-FFH au where Peter hides out in Tennessee with Harley after Mysterio reveals his identity. the idea is that they work together to formulate a plan to save Peter’s ass while they develop Harley’s Ironlad persona. I’ll probably never write much detail on that though because I suck so I’m posting this. and other one-shots nobody asks for  
> enjoy!

Harley’s fully engrossed in the open panel of his suit’s arm when he hears the first knock. If he’d been listening to music like he usually was, he probably wouldn’t have even heard it, for how soft and hesitant it was. To the young mechanic’s surprise, it erupts into an orchestra of chaotic slamming before Harley can even close the program. His hand extends to the drawer on his right, fingers dancing along the surface of his newest canon prototype, heart racing.

“Open the door, please.”

Harley lets the weapon fall back to the bottom of the drawer, where it lands with a quiet ‘bang.’ Instead, he shuts the panel and kicks back his desk chair as he rises to approach the bright red door. The window – at his eye level, now – is far too filthy for Harley to properly see his guest. He should probably do something about that.

“Please, Harley,” the voice begs. It booms over the sound of the knocking, but it’s far from powerful. It wavers beneath the volume and breaks between words.

Harley cracks the door open hesitantly, but the masked man – boy – pushes it the rest of the way, barging in with a clumsy apology after the metal nearly knocks Harley on his ass.

He takes a few steps before doubling over, his back to the door. A skin-tight black mask is peeled from his face, a gloved hand running over his own forehead. The fabric lands on the ground between his legs as Harley locks the door again.

“Turn around. Now.” Harley demands with faux discipline.

So, he does. The boy – Harley can only assume he's young by the way he towers over him – rises slowly, turning to face Harley with his hands risen in surrender. Harley almost laughs at this, but stops himself at his new friend’s appearance. The poor kid’s hair is plastered to his face with sweat, skin flushed and colorless, minus his red-rimmed eyes and the subtle hue of the faded bruises that litter his cheeks. He’s shaking from his finger tips to his suit-clad legs. Crying, too.

“Peter?”

Harley remembers. He was in a similar state when they met. Swap his current attire for a black suit and tie and Harley might think he was reliving the day. That reminds him: “Is that a stealth suit? Because it's fucking awes—”

“They know.” Peter ignores him. He’s looking at Harley, but it sounds like he’s talking to himself. 

“Uh, who?”

“Everyone.”

Harley can’t help the look he gives Peter. He shows up at his garage – unannounced and _certainly surprising_ – just to barge in and torment Harley with this ominousness and that _gorgeous suit_. He’s intrigued, but mostly concerned.

“What do _they_ know?”

Now it’s Peter’s turn to look confused. He hiccups, then, “that I’m Spider-Man…?”

“Oh my God!” Harley follows the inappropriate shout by clamping a hand over his mouth. He chuckles into his own palm. “That actually makes sense... Wait, why wouldn’t you want people to know you’re _Spider-man_?” 

“Fucking… _Mysterio_!” Peter shouts without warning. In one sharp movement, he bashes an arm into the nearest table, scattering Harley’s equipment across the floor and leaving a fist-sized dent at the impact site.

He just sobs. With both hands pressed to his face now, he muffles choked cries into them. Harley watches in helpless horror. When Peter’s legs eventually give out, he lurches forward in an attempt to catch him; he’s off a beat, though, and both boys collapse into Peter’s mess.

“I don’t— I’m sorry,”

Peter tries to reconcile by cleaning up after himself, but each piece of tech he attempts to pick up just slips from his fingers. Harley tells him not to worry about it, but he insists. He reaches for the computer monitor – anxious to see the state of the screen once he flips it from it’s face down position – but Harley catches his wrist halfway.

“Peter, stop. You’re makin’ it worse.”

Peter obliges, finally, sinking in on himself. He tries to control his breathing ( _in for 8, hold for 4, out for 8, like May always preached_ ). It takes a few minutes and multiple failed attempts, but he manages. Harley doesn’t offer any help, really, but his hand lingers over Peter’s the entire time. 

“I’m sorry,” Harley chuckles, once he’s sure Peter isn’t going to hyperventilate and die. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know.”

Harley stands finally, swiping his hands over his sweatpants to rid some of the dirt from the floor before extending his arm to Peter. “What are you doing... well, _here_?”

Truth be told, Peter isn’t really sure. He was gone before Beck’s recording could fade to black, Happy’s words taunting him as he rushed to the location of his backpack. He took it to the roof of Tower 28, the same daunting question echoing. _You’re all alone, your friends are in trouble... What are you going to do?_ The first time Happy asked him, he felt invincible. He meant to thank Happy for that - for helping him get his head on straight, realize what he needed to do, what he could do… But the whole conversation felt like a joke now. In that jet, Peter felt like he could breathe for the first time in... well, years, technically. Now, though, he was right back to square one. 

Looking out over Queens, Peter had two choices. The first one was to just jump, but even he could see it was a little dramatic (besides, the suit had parachutes). So, he resorted to his preferred method of damage control: _What would Mr. Stark do?_ In hindsight, coming to Harley was a stupid idea _._ Sure, it’s something Tony might’ve done – Hell, he _did_ do it, but those were different circumstances.

Once Harley pulls him to his feet, Peter shrugs. “Couldn’t go anywhere else.”

Harley cocks his head to the side, dirty blonde waves draping across his forehead.

“I thought, you know, if people knew I was Spider-Man, they’d come after the people I love.” Peter explains thoughtfully. “And I guess I was right, because Beck knew, and he tried to kill MJ and Ned… and Betty… Happy too…”

“Who?” Harley catches him just before he spirals.

“I made a stupid mistake, and I put my friends in danger. Now, I’m a fucking _terrorist!_ And my name – _my name_ – is plastered on every TV screen in the world... May—” Peter cuts himself off. He blinks, a few tears streaming rapidly down his cheeks before he can wipe them away. “Happy, my friends… None of them are safe as long as I’m around.”

“You’re a terrorist?” is all Harley says. He looks around the garage, then, “Maybe I’ve spent too much time cooped up in here…”

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling shakily. “Harley, please.”

“Okay, fine.” Harley sighs, suddenly serious. “My sister’s up there.”

He motions to the staircase in the center of the room. “I appreciate you stormin’ in here and puttin’ _me_ in danger — very Tony of you, by the way — but my sister—”

“I— um, I didn’t— I’m sorry.” Peter panics, tripping over his words as he physically stumbles. He takes his mask back into his hand, clutching it tightly. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

Harley gulps. He should probably take a glimpse at the news before deciding what to do. There’s no time for that, though, and he knows he can’t let Peter leave like this. 

Harley stops him breathlessly just before he can unlock the door, wrapping his hand once again around Peter’s, this time to stop him from puling the handle. “Wait,”

“I just don’t understand,” Harley tries to explain, but Peter isn’t listening. His eyes go unfocused, confusion then fury practically reflecting from his irises. Harley scrambles to follow his gaze.

“What is that?”

“Nothin’,” Harley tries to step between Peter and his half-finished suit, but Peter pushes him to the side easily. Harley staggers, reaching for the note that resides just beside the half-drunk Redbull Peter initially distracted him from. He’s just seconds too late.

Peter takes the card between his fingers, glossy eyes scanning the calligraphy.

_For the next Ironman,_

_don’t make me regret this._

_Your friend,_

_The Mechanic._


End file.
